Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child (a repeat, but a good one)




Artists struggle to survive in age of the blockbuster

RUSSELL SMITH



In the artistic economy, the Internet has not lived up to its hype. For years, the cybergurus liked to tell us about the “long tail” – the rise of niches, “unlimited variety for unique tastes” – that would give equal opportunities to tiny indie bands and Hollywood movies. People selling products of any kind would, in the new connected world, be able to sell small amounts to lots of small groups. Implicit in the idea was the promise that since niche tastes would form online communities not limited by national boundaries, a niche product might find a large international audience without traditional kinds of promotion in its home country. People in publishing bought this, too. The end result, we were told, would be an extremely diverse cultural world in which the lesbian vampire novel would be just as widely discussed as the Prairie short story and the memoir in tweets.





In fact, the blockbuster artistic product is dominating cultural consumption as at no other time in history. Hundreds of millions of dollars are spent on each successive Hunger Games, and the rep cinemas have closed. A few sports stars are paid more individually than entire publishing houses or record labels earn in a year.

A couple of prominent commentators have made this argument recently about American culture at large. The musician David Byrne lamented, in a book of essays, that his recent albums would once have been considered modest successes but now no longer earn him enough to sustain his musical project. That’s David Byrne – he’s a great and famous artist. Just no Lady Gaga. The book Blockbusters: Hit-making, Risk-taking, and the Big Business of Entertainment, by business writer Anita Elberse, argues that the days of the long tail are over in the United States. It makes more sense, she claims, for entertainment giants to plow as much money as they can into guaranteed hits than to cultivate new talent. “Because people are inherently social,” she writes cheerily, “they generally find value in reading the same books and watching the same television shows and movies that others do.”





Well, the same appears to be true of publishing, even in this country. There are big winners and there are losers – the middle ground is eroding. Publishers are publishing less, not more. Everybody awaits the fall’s big literary-prize nominations with a make-us-or-break-us terror. Every second-tier author spends an hour every day in the dismal abjection of self-promotion – on Facebook, to an audience of 50 fellow authors who couldn’t care less who just got a nice review in the Raccoonville Sentinel. This practice sells absolutely no books; increases one’s “profile” by not one centimetre; and serves only to increase one’s humiliation at not being in the first tier, where one doesn’t have to do that.





Novelists have been complaining, privately at least, about the new castes in the literary hierarchy. This happens every year now, in the fall, the uneasiness – after the brief spurt of media attention that goes to the nominees and winners of the three major Canadian literary prizes, the Scotiabank Giller, the Governor-General’s, and the Rogers Writers’ Trust. The argument is that the prizes enable the media to single out a few books for promotion, and no other books get to cross the divide into public consciousness. And, say the spurned writers, this fact guides the publishers in their acquisitions. Editors stand accused of seeking out possible prize-winners (i.e. “big books”) rather than indulging their own tastes. This leads, it is said, to a homogenized literary landscape and no place at all for the weird and uncategorizable.





But even if this is true, what can one possibly do about it? Abolish the prizes? No one would suggest this – and even the critics of prize culture understand that the prizes were created by genuine lovers of literature with nothing but the best intentions, and that rewarding good writers financially is good, even necessary, in a small country without a huge market.

It’s not, I think, the fault of the literary prizes that the caste system exists. Nor of the vilified “media” who must cover these major events. It’s the lack of other venues for the discussion and promotion of books that closes down the options. There were, in the nineties, several Canadian television programs on the arts. There were even whole TV shows about books alone. Not one of these remains. There were radio shows that novel-readers listened to. There were budgets for book tours; there were hotel rooms in Waterloo and Moncton. In every year that I myself have published a book there have been fewer invitations and less travel. Now, winning a prize is really one’s only shot at reaching a national level of awareness.





So again, what is to be done? What does any artist do in the age of the blockbuster? Nothing, absolutely nothing, except keep on doing what you like to do. Global economic changes are not your problem (and are nothing you can change with a despairing tweet). Think instead, as you always have, about whether or not you like semicolons and how to describe the black winter sky. There is something romantic about being underground, no?

Look on the bright side: Poverty can be good for art. At least it won’t inspire you to write Fifty Shades of Grey.


 


You HAVE to see this - it's so cool!





































This is one of the coolest things I've ever seen on the internet! Almost makes the evils of technology worthwhile. As a nature child who loved to scamper around in the woods, I would have been enraptured by this. Just click on the link below, wait for it to load, then click on each bird to hear its song.


http://www.dnr.state.mn.us/nature/birds/bird_songs_interactive.html





He loves me, he loves me not





A new book out is like a little tornado, and it sucks in everything in your life (for a while - tornado-time is now very short). This can be exhausting. Meantime, waiting for the miracle of sales, I need rest for a second. Where do I find it? In Harold gifs, of course. Last time I tried to make a gif, it didn't turn out with either of the programs I normally use. One of them went catawampus a long time ago and only offers about 1/4 of the options it used to have. Those tiny, virtually three-dimensional works of art are a thing of the past. I think.

So in digging around, which I still do for some reason, I occasionally come up with "something like this". Very sweet. I want to lie down now for about a thousand years.






Special Bonus gif: someone was clever enough to take the first gif and animate it. I couldn't do this to save my life, but I do thank whoever did it.

I promise, no more ads after I break 10,000.



Saturday, March 22, 2014

The things we do for love


Amazon.com
Chapters/Indigo.ca


Harold is now a commodity, and I must find all sorts of vigorous ways to promote it/him. It's a bittersweet feeling. Of course I wanted it, want it, and want him/the book to do spectacularly well, a lottery-dream sort of feeling.

But I do remember when he was just a thought in my head, and now he is something quite else.

And that's something.



The world as seen by space aliens (or: it's all in how you look at it)






Mount Rushmore


I guarantee you these photos won't bore you. They provide two dramatically different perspectives on world-famous landmarks, the second one seen at a tremendous distance. Sometimes the effect is spectacular, sometimes creepy. This is just a TINY taste, and somehow this blog doesn't do them justice - follow the link below to see them all.

http://distractify.com/fun/fails/seeing-these-9-famous-landmarks-from-far-away-might-shatter-your-perception-of-them-forever/






Stonehenge






Hollywood sign






Central Park, New York



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The Innovation of Loneliness




Some interesting thoughts here. I was especially taken by the idea that we now get to tailor and edit the selves we present to other people. This completely kills both spontaneity and genuineness (if that's a word), so that there is no longer any risk we'll "say the wrong thing". We're too busy typing it out with our thumbs and taking out whatever might place us in a bad light.

This is like a giant watering can for the seeds of narcissism we all contain. When will it stop? I guess when the environment falls apart and we're all swept away, in about 50 years or less. No, really, I do not think that with this social erosion and the horrific, unforgiveable way we have befouled the planet that we have a snowball's chance in hell of surviving. And it's sad, because if only enough of us would wake up. . . but we're too busy "talking" to each other with our thumbs.

Maybe the survivalists have it right, after all. But what sort of world will they inherit?

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It's here . . . The Glass Character on Amazon and Indigo





This is the second time I've had to do this whole thing - alarmingly, it all disappeared the first time, which I pray is not an omen - so forgive me if I'm not feeling quite as festive as before. I've just found TGC on Amazon, looking a lot more sprightly with an actual picture of the cover, and though he won't be available for a couple of weeks, you can pre-order through the link here. Indigo will have them for sale online, but no word yet as to whether they will actually be in the stores. Link is also provided. I'll get him out there somehow!









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The Glass Character [Paperback]

Margaret Gunning
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Book Description

March 30 2014
In the heady times of the 1920s Hollywood, a teenager?s crush on the legendary screen idol, comedian Harold Lloyd, changes her life forever.



Product Description

About the Author

Margaret Gunning?s experience in print journalism includes hundreds of columns and book reviews in such publications as the

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by Margaret Gunning
Thistledown Press | March 30, 2014 | Trade Paperback

For sixteen year-old Jane he was a living god and though Lloyd had as many female followers as Gilbert or Barrymore, Jane knew no one could adore him more than she did, and no one would be willing to sacrifice more to be part of his life. There is in her story a naïveté in the voice and a wide-eyed innocence in the events, but as guileless as Jane may seem, her unaffected vision reveals much about the politics of the major studios, the power plays of the directors and producers, and the prima donna and egotistical Hollywood stars who ruled the movies. Her story also reveals much about the human heart and our desire to love against all the impossible odds. ?Margaret Gunning writes with uncanny grace and unflinching clarity . . .Montreal Gazette

Format: Trade Paperback
Dimensions: 228 Pages, 5.91 × 8.66 × 0.79 in
Published: March 30, 2014
Publisher: Thistledown Press
Language: English

About the Author

Margaret Gunning?s experience in print journalism includes hundreds of columns and book reviews in such publications as the Globe & Mail, Vancouver Sun, Victoria Times-Colonist and Montreal Gazette. Her poems have appeared in Prism International, Room of One's Own, Capilano Review and many others. Margaret?s first novel (Better than Life), described by the Edmonton Journal as ?fiction at its finest?, celebrates the joy and anguish of family in small-town Ontario. Her second novel (Mallory) explores issues of bullying and social ostracism. Gunning currently lives in Coquitlam, BC.
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Thursday, March 20, 2014

Blinded by the Light: now, class. . .




Blinded By The Light Lyrics












"Blinded by the Light" is a song written and originally recorded by Bruce Springsteen, although it is mostly known by its 1976 #1 hit version recorded by Manfred Mann's Earth Band. It was released in the United Kingdom in August 1976, where it reached No. 6 in the BMRB charts.


What chart rank did the song debut? What is the song about? Has it won any awards?, etc.
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   Blinded by the light
Wrapped up like a noose another rumor in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night




Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Madman drummers bummers,
Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat






In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat

With a boulder on my shoulder,
feelin' kinda older,









I tripped the merry-go-round

With this very unpleasin',

sneezin' and wheezin,


the calliope crashed to the ground

The calliope crashed to the ground




But she was...
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,




another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,




revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night




Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night





Some silicone sister with a manager mister told me I got what it takes
She said "I'll turn you on sonny to something strong, play the song with the funky break"








And go-cart Mozart was checkin' out the weather chart to see if it was safe outside

And little Early-Pearly came by in his curly-

wurly and asked me if I needed a ride





Asked me if I needed a ride



But she was...
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light



She got down but she never got tired
She's gonna make it through the night
She's gonna make it through the night






------ guitar solo ------
Mama always told me not to look into the eye of the sun
But mama, that's where the fun is
But mama, that's where the fun is
Mama always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun




But mama, that's where the fun is
Some brimstone baritone anticyclone rolling stone preacher from the east

Says, "Dethrone the dictaphone, hit it in its funny bone, that's where they expect it least"


And some new-mown chaperone was standin' in the corner, watching the young girls dance





And some fresh-sown moonstone was messin' with his frozen zone, reminding him of romance
The calliope crashed to the ground
But she was...
Blinded by the light,




revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,



another runner in the night
{the following two sections are sung simultaneously}
1)



Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night
Blinded by the light,
revved up like a deuce,
another runner in the night




Blinded by the light, revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night
~ Blinded by the light




2) ~ Madman drummers bummers, Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat
~ In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat

 With this very unpleasin', sneezin' and wheezin, the 

calliope 

crashed to the ground





~ With a boulder on my shoulder, feelin' kinda older, I 


tripped the merry-go-round~













~ Now Scott with a slingshot finally found a tender spot and throws his lover in the sand
~ And some bloodshot forget-me-not said daddy's within earshot save the buckshot, turn up the band





~ Some silicone sister with a manager mister told me I go what it takes
~ She said "I'll turn you on sonny to something strong"




She got down but she never got tired
She's gonna make it through the night

Strange stirrings



I was enthralled by this song when I was a young girl. Little did I know I wasn't going to be a young girl for much longer. Feelings were surging through me, inexpressible. I knew what they were, and feared them. Those feelings are still with me. I know what they are, and fear them. We have music for this, like a remedy for an illness, a long illness with an inevitable end.


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